The sky was filled with dragons, riders just barely visible on their backs.
Bilbo sat back, just inside the gates of Moria to watch them.
There were people on the ground as well, dwarves, an entire army of them. They moved in waves, surging forward and then back again as they broke upon the wall of orcs that met them.
A voice snapped at him in Black Speech and he turned. Immediately the orc who'd spoken went pale, if that were possible, and fled in another direction.
Bilbo sighed; now they would tell Azog that he had been at the gates instead of inside tending to his duties as ordered.
Azog would punish him. Bilbo shuddered, phantom pain lancing through the scars on his back. Azog had the uncanny ability to come up with incredibly creative punishments any time Bilbo did something to annoy him and sometimes when Bilbo had done nothing at all.
As though summoned a familiar voice broke out on the battlefield, screaming something obscene. Bilbo followed the voice and found Azog standing on an outcropping of rock several hundred yards away. He held the severed head of a dwarf in one hand, its long white hair hanging from his fingertips.
Overhead the dragons the dwarves had brought roared in unison, fire spouting from their maws. Then, as though maddened, they went after the smaller orc dragons with a violence and brutality Bilbo hadn't known they possessed. He drew himself in tighter, pressing back into the small alcove. Fear uncoiled in his gut and snaked up his spine. He would not want to be the focus of such wrath.
A new roar rang out over the battlefield. This one came from a dwarf, tall and sturdy with dark hair and a short beard. Bilbo could see he wore rich clothing and armor, even under the dirt and blood covering him. He was staring at Azog with a look somewhere between horror and hatred.
The dwarf began to charge his master but Bilbo was already turning away to scamper back into Moria, unwilling to risk staying out any longer and risk a higher ranking orc spot him. It had been growing cold anyway, a rain-laden wind biting through the thin rags he wore.
He darted past scores of orcs, none of whom paid him any mind as they raced out to join the battle. Every so often Bilbo would run past other slaves as well, dwarf, hobbit and even an elf or two. They also ignored him. Bilbo held an odd status as Azog's personal slave. The orcs and slaves alike refused to associate with him for fear of drawing his master's attention.
In fact there was only one who'd paid him any mind and that had only been recently.
His feet took him to the lower levels and then further still. It was much quieter down there, the halls temporarily emptied into the upper levels.
Eventually he began to hear the sound of labored breathing. His heart fell somewhat. It wouldn't be long until at least one of his new friends was gone and there was no telling what would happen to the other one then.
He burst through a doorway into an enormous cavern and skidded to a stop.
The firedrake that dominated the room barely reacted to him. She was beautiful, a deep, rich black with a solid gold colored underbelly. Gold horns arched gracefully from her head and threaded in veins through her wings.
When Azog had found her and her rider crashed in the forest it had taken a score of orcs days to drag her into the mines.
The fact she was so badly injured and didn't seem to be recovering as time passed had enraged him. Most orc dragons were small, barely larger than the wargs they rode, and Azog had been thrilled at the thought of breaking, and eventually commanding, a full sized firedrake.
Bilbo walked forward, trying to keep quiet. He could see she was asleep, a deep, troubled sleep. Her sides heaved as she struggled to draw in enough breath. One of her wings was folded against her side, the other flared out, torn and crippled.
She would most likely never fly again even if she did recover.
When they'd first brought her in she'd been littered with great gashes and horrible wounds. Bilbo could still remember her screams of pain as they'd dragged her in, the great swathes of blood leading from the mine entrance to the lower levels. Her rider had been brought in just behind her and his screams and near sobs of rage had been every bit as bad even though he'd sported very few wounds. He'd fought so hard to get to the dragon he'd broken an arm but he hadn't seemed to notice, just continued to fight against the orcs holding him. Bilbo wondered at that, the depth of the relationship between two beings that would cause one to fight so hard to get to the other even at cost to himself.
Once they got her down she'd fallen into a deep sleep. That had been months ago and she had barely woken since and not at all in at least a week.
A rattle of chain sounded and a figure limped around her front foreleg.
Bilbo hurried to him, pulling the small fish he'd caught in a stream from a ragged pocket to hand over.
The dwarf took it gratefully, uncaring it was raw, and proceeded to devour it whole. Once he was done, all too quickly, he sagged down against the dragon's flank.
"Thank you Bilbo."
Bilbo gave a weak smile and carefully signed back a response. He kept his hands low and close to his chest. He wasn't supposed to know how to communicate at all, much less in a dwarven language. Azog had assigned him to take care of the dragon and its rider, however, and, eventually, the dwarf's desire for communication had led to him teaching Bilbo the sign language.
Now his friend, who still refused to give his name, even to Bilbo least a passing orc overhear, nodded up over their heads.
"What's going on up there? It's been quieter than usual."
Bilbo hesitated in his response. His friend hadn't been that injured in the first place and his wounds had all healed perfectly but, over the past week or so especially, he'd begun to look pale and drawn. He'd given up on trying to appear presentable and his blond hair hung lank and tangled on his shoulders, the braids in it mostly gone. His eyes, a brilliant blue when he'd been dragged in, were dull and his skin was pale. The rich clothing had mostly been taking from him living him in a simple tunic and trousers, no shoes for they had been taken also, and Bilbo could see clearly how much he'd wasted away from what he'd been when they first brought him in.
He hesitantly signed to him.
The dwarf gave him a tired smile. "It'll be all right, Bilbo. Don't worry about me."
Bilbo nodded, still unsure, but started signing again, telling him of the battle overhead. When he got to the part about the decapitated dwarf his friend jerked as though struck, his entire face crumpling.
Bilbo stopped immediately, his eyes wide.
His friend leaned forward as though in physical pain wrapping his arms around his drawn up knees and digging his fingers into the flesh of his calves.
He stayed like that a long time before, finally, taking a deep, shuddering breath and straightening. When he looked at Bilbo his eyes glistened and his hands trembled slightly but his voice, when he spoke, was strong.
"Continue."
Bilbo did, only to stop again when the dwarf gave a short, bitter laugh at the description of the dark haired dwarf that had charged Azog.
"Idiot. He better not get himself killed."
He started to say something else but cut himself off as running footsteps sounded. An orc burst into the room, advancing on Bilbo who immediately turned and knelt before it, his hands pressed to the floor and his head down.
"Your master has need of you," the orc snapped in Black Speech. "Go to him now."
Bilbo obeyed, leaving without another glance at his friend or the dragon. If anyone suspected he was anything more than a jailer to the prisoner he would be removed from the duty immediately and not allowed to return.
He ran quickly back to the upper levels, not wanting to risk Azog's ire by being late. As he got higher he saw more and more orcs, many injured and in great pain. A great number would probably be killed if it were shown they could not care for themselves. Orcs had no use for those who were weak.
As he neared his master's chambers he could hear roars of pain and his steps quickened. If Azog were injured he would be angry and that meant Bilbo had to be flawless.
He entered the small room and froze at the sight before him.
Azog lay on his bed, a number of orcs forcibly holding him down. Where one arm had previously been there was now only a stump. Great spurts of blood sprayed from the wound, coating everything in the room.
One of the orcs barked an order at him and Bilbo started before jumping into action as commanded. Orcs had little in the way of medical supplies, it was mainly stop the bleeding and hope you're not weak, but he retrieved what little they had.
They did stop the bleeding but it soon grew infected and, over the next few days, Azog stayed in a deep, fevered sleep.
Bilbo stayed in the room for the most part, cleaning the blood up and staying out of the way of other orcs. At night he would curl up in the small corner of the room where he normally slept and hope desperately that his master would die during the night.
On the fourth night Azog's fever grew worse and he began screaming and fighting. Bilbo was forced to get some of the other orcs, those loyal to Azog, who came in and held him down lest he burst the wound open once more.
As they fought with him Bilbo slipped out and headed to the lower levels. As he was the only one taking care of the prisoners it was unlikely his friend had been given anything to eat or drink in four days. Azog would be angry if he woke up to find them dead before he wished it.
The torches in the lower levels were mostly out as Bilbo hadn't been there to relight them. He did so now, guilt gnawing at him over his neglect of his friend.
By the time he got the last one lit he could see the dwarf, curled up against the body of the dragon.
It barely moved anymore, the signs of breathing so faint he feared for a second it was dead.
His friend looked ragged, deep lines etched into his face. Bilbo had thought him fairly young but at the moment he looked ancient. He ran to fetch water and returned with it, dropping down and gently shaking the other's arm.
The dwarf woke up slowly, but gratefully accepted the water.
"What's been happening?"
The words were quiet and rasped but Bilbo caught them and quickly explained.
To his surprise the words seemed to have a great effect on the dwarf. His eyes hardened and a spark appeared in them. He struggled to push himself up.
"Help me."
Bilbo obeyed, grabbing his arm and pulling him upright. Once up his friend gave himself a shake and stood straight and tall.
"I need you to do something for me," He said. "I need you to escape."
Bilbo's breath caught in his throat, his entire body going rigid with shock. He signed frantically at the other dwarf; he couldn't escape, he'd be caught and punished, possibly even killed.
"No," The dwarf said, shaking his head. "You told me before that the others all leave you alone. With their attention on Azog they'll be paying even less to you."
Bilbo thought about it and realized, with a start, he had a point. Over the last several days he'd been left to his own devices and largely ignored. Even now, he'd been able to leave Azog's room and come down here without anyone seeming to care.
He looked at his friend and tugged on him, trying to draw him away from the dragon.
The dwarf smiled and shook his head. He tugged at the chains on his legs. "I know you don't have the key. I won't be going anywhere."
Bilbo's eyes widened. He tried to ask why but his friend was turning away, limply stiffly and awkwardly down toward the dragon's stomach area.
He placed his hands on her stomach, his eyes closing. Bilbo saw his lips move and heard words come out but couldn't understand the language.
The tone, though, was one of grief and a deep sadness.
The dragon didn't seem to react but, as Bilbo watched, its breaths grew more and more shallow, the intervals between them stretching longer and longer.
Until, finally, with one last heave, they stopped all together.
His friend stayed where he was for a long time, both hands pressed against the dragon's hide. When he finally straightened Bilbo could see tears streaming down both sides of his face.
"I need a knife, Bilbo, now."
Bilbo obeyed, though he couldn't explain why he did it.
There were always weapons strewn about in the mines, orcs weren't the most organized, and he quickly returned with a large, sharp knife in his hand.
His friend took it, shut his eyes and whispered something in that strange language again, and then drove it into the dragon's stomach.
Bilbo jerked forward, grabbing at his arm but he was shaken off with a sharp word.
The dwarf continued and Bilbo felt gorge rise in his throat as blood spewed forth, coating his friend instantly.
Finally Bilbo was forced to turn his back, crouching to his knees and covering his ears with his hands. He couldn't block out every sound and his heart raced at the horror of it, a light tremble running over his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pretend he was somewhere else. Some of the hobbits who came in spoke of a place known as the Shire, peaceful and green and full of dragons who lived in contentment with their bondmates. Bilbo loved the idea of it, even though Azog claimed it wasn't real and the hobbits simply made it up, and would often go to his own mental image of it when being beaten for some offense.
A hand fell on his shoulder and he jumped, falling to his backside and spinning around.
His friend stood over him, covered in blood and gore. There was a darkness in his eyes and a blank, almost dazed expression on his face. Bilbo kept his eyes on the dwarf and purposefully didn't look behind him.
Something in his friend's arms shifted and Bilbo looked at it in surprise, before scrambling up to see better.
His friend held a tiny dragon.
The creature was incredibly small, fitting easily into the dwarf's arms. It was pure white in color with a shimmering array of other colors mixed in that changed and shifted with each movement of the small animal. Streaks of gold dusted it along the edges of each scale and ran through its wings in veins much as it had done on the larger dragon. The wings were so small he could barely see them and its eyes were closed.
"This is the only one that made it." His friend shifted his arms, his eyes dark as he studied the small form. "She held on as long as she could," he said, his voice catching, "but it may not have been long enough." He took a shuddering breath and then, without warning, thrust the small dragon into Bilbo's arms.
Bilbo took it instinctively, surprised at the weight. The small creature didn't move though he could see it was breathing.
"I need you to take it and go, Bilbo."
Bilbo looked at him, his eyes wide. He couldn't sign with the small animal in his arms but his eyes must have conveyed his feelings well enough.
"I know," the dwarf said, "but she died to give that baby a chance." He reached forward and grabbed Bilbo's shoulders. In the light from the torches Bilbo could see his friend looked positively wrecked, tears glistening on his face. His hands on Bilbo's shoulders trembled. "Please Bilbo, please just try. Don't let Azog take her."
Bilbo tightened his arms on the small creature. He studied his friend and nodded, once.
The dwarf gave him a small, tired smile. "Thank you." He turned Bilbo around and gave him a light shove. "The dwarven armies are probably still out there. Go to them, they'll take care of you both."
Bilbo nodded again. He took a few steps and then stopped, looking back.
The dwarf shook his head. "I am happy to have met you my friend. Now, please, go."
Bilbo hesitated for a moment and then obeyed. The dwarf had been the only friend he'd ever had, he'd been the one to explain what the word even meant so he couldn't very well defy him now.
At the entrance he stopped for an instant and looked back. His friend had gone to sit down against the dragon's muzzle. He held the knife in one hand and was studying the blade.
A shiver ran through Bilbo but he obediently turned his back and left. He felt a strange twisting in his gut as he ran and an odd burning sensation in his eyes. Shifting the small dragon he reached up and was startled to fear tears tracking down his face.
He hadn't realized he could still cry anymore.
It was easy to get out. Orcs didn't post guards, confident in their own ability to stop anything that attempted to enter. In addition to that most of them were deep inside the mine anyway, nursing their wounds.
Normally Bilbo would be in Azog's chambers, chained to his small corner while the orc slept but, as his friend had said, no one had paid him any mind the last few days.
As he stepped out into the night and felt the cool breeze hit his face it occurred to him he could have escaped at any time the previous four days, just gotten up and walked out.
Why hadn't he done so?
He stepped forward, out of the gates. The moon shown down and, in its light, he could see the thousands upon thousands of corpses, dwarf and orc, littering the landscape.
He didn't see anything alive, either dwarf or orc. His friend had said the dwarves would still be around but he couldn't imagine where they would have gone. Perhaps they had all died after all?
Bilbo shuffled forward, half expecting to be dragged backward at any second. Fear was clenching at his gut and it took all he had to keep moving. As soon as Azog recovered, if he did, he would be after him.
Bilbo paused, the fear now so intense he doubled over, almost kneeling on the ground.
He'd been a slave his entire life. What would he do on his own? Where would he go? How would he eat?
His eyes went to the small creature in his arms. He thought of Azog and what he would do with such a little dragon.
Taking a deep breath, Bilbo steeled himself as best he could and got back up. He remembered a hobbit once telling him how to get to the Shire, how to follow the stars and sun to go back home. The hobbit had died quickly but not before Bilbo had burned the path into his mind, a mental map he often recalled and daydreamed of following.
Did he dare?
He cast a quick look over his shoulder but the mouth of the mines was dark and silent. Bilbo chewed on his lower lip and then took a step forward.
And another.
And another after that.
He kept his face resolutely forward, never looking back or turning around.
Eventually the sky began to lighten and the ground under his feet became clearer. He continued, farther and farther from the mines.
Great towering trees closed around him and he trudged beneath them wearily, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and any potential pursuers once they found him gone.
In his arms the tiny dragon slept on. The weight of it grew heavier the father they got and the higher in the sky the sun rose until, finally, about noon, Bilbo came across a small stream. He settled himself under a tree and placed the dragon on his lap, leaning back against the trunk.
He sighed, his muscles relaxing as the rays of the sun hit him through the branches. He'd forgotten how good the sun felt, he was so rarely allowed out into it.
A gentle breeze ruffled his hair and shirt, bringing with it the stink of orc and the mines. Bilbo shuddered, grimacing at the reminder of where he'd been.
He carefully got up, transferring the little creature to a hollow in the base of the tree.
He then stepped over to the stream and drank his fill, marveling at the taste of clean water. Afterward he undressed carefully. His clothing was little more than rags and he tried to be as careful as possible, washing out the dirt and grime. It refused to come out entirely but he did the best he could and then laid them out in the sun to dry.
After that he stepped into the water himself, gasping in shock at the cold feeling. He washed carefully, using the water to rid himself of years of grime and dried sweat. Slowly he began to see clean skin appear though it was often marred by the puckered flesh and white lines of scars. Around his wrists in particular were thick scars from when he would be manacled at night.
There were more scars around his ankles. He'd been manacled there as well until the dragon and his friend had come. Then it had been decided he took too long going from the lower levels to care for them and back up again. The manacles had been removed to let him go faster and, being as lazy as they were, no one had bothered to put them back on him again.
His hair took the longest, repeated dunks under the water until the mats and clumps of dirt finally stopped coming out. Even then it was hopelessly tangled and he lost more of it attempting to comb it out. To his surprise he found the result fell nearly to his shoulders, far longer than he'd thought.
He stepped out of the stream and settled on the ground near his clothes, letting the sun dry him.
Being clean was an amazing feeling. No more constant itching, no more feel of the weight of grime on his body, no more mats of hair pulling at the skin of his head and creating an almost constant pinching pain.
Once his clothes were dry he put them on as best he could, struggling not to destroy them even more. Even as ragged as they were they were still too large, hanging off his frame. He studied his arm, noting the knobs and lines of his bones under the skin. His friend had not looked like that, at first at least and he wondered what it felt like to not have a constant, gnawing hunger at the back of your mind.
An odd, warbling cry pulled him out of his musings and he turned toward the tree with a burst of guilt. He'd almost forgotten the baby dragon.
Returning he dropped to his knees and found it moving though its eyes remained closed. It opened its mouth and another plaintive cry burst out, echoing in the small clearing.
Bilbo felt a burst of panic, what if someone heard?
Quickly he gathered the small animal up, flinching as he noticed how cold it felt and began to walk. As he did he tried to stay in the sun, hoping to warm the little animal but it continued to feel far too cold.
What did baby dragons eat anyway? He thought to the small ones the orcs kept. He was rarely allowed near them but, the few times he'd been to the pens; it seemed the babies were always near their mothers. He'd never seen one alone.
He carried it to the stream but it seemed unwilling, or unable, to drink anything. It still felt bitterly cold so he took his shirt off and wrapped it around the small body as best he could. He tied the sleeves together and slung it over his head and under one arm, creating a small sling that nestled the little dragon in a cocoon in the shirt and against his body.
It still whimpered and made soft crying noises but it seemed a little more settled.
Bilbo wrapped his arms around it and continued walking.
The next week was a nightmare. The little dragon was unable to eat any of the small berries he found and couldn't drink from the small pools or streams they came across. In addition it shivered uncontrollably, especially at night. Bilbo got no sleep at all, terrified he'd wake up to find the small creature had passed away during the night.
He doubted he'd have been able to sleep even without the little dragon, however. He had found little to eat himself during the week they'd traveled and his stomach felt like it was chewing on his insides. The water had been even sparser after that first day and it soon felt as if a desert existed inside his mouth.
Bilbo's body had no reserves with which to sustain his trek and it soon became more of a trudge, over rocky ground and down steep ravines. He had long since lost any sense of direction and merely tried to force his feet to continue, one in front of the other. Several times he stumbled and fell and barely had the presence of mind to shield the little dragon before his body hit the ground.
On the morning of the eighth day he sat beneath a tree and cradled the small dragon on his lap. It had grown progressively weaker, its cries barely perceptible and its movements as slow and sluggish as its mother's had been.
Bilbo felt a sob catch in his throat though no tears burned his eyes as he had no water to spare.
They were going to die out there in the wild and none would be the wiser. He thought back to his friend and was grateful at least he wasn't there to witness Bilbo's failure.
He allowed his head to drop back against the trunk and gazed upward through the branches to the blue sky overhead.
His mother used to tell him about the sky, he thought hazily. She always wove the best stories of soaring through the air on the back of his father's dragon, clutching tightly to his waist lest she fall off.
She had spoken of his father often, her words wistful and sad. He was strong, she said, and honorable. Though the two of them were not of the same race he had never treated her as anything less than his one and only true love.
"He will come for us," she would whisper late at night when they were huddled in the pits the slaves were forced to sleep in. "You'll see, he'll come."
But he hadn't.
And mother had failed to wake up one morning, her eyes fixed on some spot overhead as though she could see the sky through all the layers of stone and the orcs had come and dragged her away and he hadn't been able to stop them no matter how hard he fought.
And his fighting had gained the attention of Azog who had claimed him as his personal slave and forced him to clean the blood and guts from his armor and serve him dinner and fight other slaves sometimes for sport and his mother and her stories had been left further and further in the dark.
He hadn't seen his first glimpse of the sun until years later and his mother's stories had not done it justice. Bilbo could remember simply standing still and staring at it, so long in fact it had gotten him beaten for dawdling but it had been worth it. After that he had tried to get glimpses as often as possible and, even in the last week, had spent a lot of his time simply looking upward.
It really was too bad, his wandering mind informed him, that he'd finally gotten free only to die immediately after. There was so much he'd wanted to do.
He wanted to see the Shire.
He wanted to find his father and ask him why he'd never come.
But, most of all, he wanted to help the little dragon that his only friend had entrusted him with.
His friend who had spoken to him without fear, taught him to communicate, saw him as a person and not just Azog's slave. His friend who, every time Bilbo went down, would be kneeling beside his dragon praying.
Bilbo had asked him about that and his friend had stated he was praying to his creator, Mahal.
Bilbo had asked the dwarf if he thought Mahal could hear him that deep underground.
"I do," His friend stated his eyes clear and his head held high. "He hears any who call and I have no doubt he hears me no matter how deep below the earth I reside."
Bilbo felt his eyes drifting closed. If Mahal heard him then why had he not answered? He should have asked.
Mahal. A faint voice sounded in his head and he vaguely remembered his mother talking about Mahal. He was the same one who'd created Bilbo's father.
Bilbo snorted quietly, that probably explained why he had never come for his friend then.
"Did Mahal create you too?"
"No, sweetie, not Mahal. I was created by Yavanna, creator of all growing things."
Bilbo dropped a hand to the grass beside him, digging his fingers into the earth.
Yavanna, he thought. Could YOU help me? Please?
Nothing happened and he laughed at himself.
The gods did not pay attention to his mother and his friend, why would he think they would answer him?
A dark shadow flitted overhead.
Almost simultaneously the baby dragon jerked in his arms. It poked its head out of the small sling, opened its mouth and released the loudest cry he'd heard from it in days.
Overhead, a loud roar answered.
Bilbo jumped; adrenaline and panic giving him a second wind.
He struggled to his feet just as the shadow reappeared and rapidly grew larger.
Something slammed into the ground, hard, the vibration knocking him off balance into the tree.
Dust rose up in a great cloud and, when it cleared, Bilbo found himself looking at a dragon.
It wasn't a fire drake or one of the ugly, squat things the orcs used.
This one was three to four times larger than a warg, long and serpentine, its body fluid and graceful. Shimmering, green scales covered it and its wings were almost a jeweled tone, yellow and gold and green shifting and taking dominance as it moved.
In his arms the baby cried again and the dragon immediately honed in on it, stepping forward.
Bilbo tightened his grip and moved back, pressing against the trunk of the tree.
Movement came from just behind the dragon's wings and suddenly a person was sliding down and stepping forward.
Bilbo blinked convinced, for just a second, it was his mother who approached. The woman was about the same height he remembered, with the same thick amount of hair on her bare feet and flowing, dark brown curls winding down her back. She wore a simple tunic and pants with a short cape pulled around her for warmth.
She moved closer and now Bilbo could see that, of course, she was not his mother. Her hair was several shades darker, her eyes the wrong color entirely and the shape of her face was round where his mother's had been oval.
"What's wrong with that baby?" She asked now, her eyes locking on his.
Bilbo flinched and tried to draw back deeper against the trunk.
The dragon behind her made a strange, fluting noise and she turned to look at it and then turned to regard him once more. This time he saw her eyes moving over his body, his ankles, wrists and torso. As she did he crouched down, trying to hide the scars on his chest but he knew she saw them as her eyes widened.
The baby cried again, piteous and Bilbo looked down, gently trying to rock and quiet it. He was at a loss as to how to help it.
He looked back up at the woman, chewing on his lip. She was not an orc and the dragon behind her was clearly well taken care of. His friend would want him to protect the baby and make sure it got the best care possible.
Besides, the woman was clearly a Hobbit, though far better looking than the sorry creatures he met in the mines. Bilbo had yet to meet a Hobbit who meant anyone else harm.
In the end, though, he probably made his decision to let her help based on the fact she reminded him of his mother.
He stood up carefully, his legs shaking and walked toward her. She watched him calmly, making no effort to move.
Stopping just in front of her Bilbo carefully removed the sling and knelt, placing it on the ground and unwrapping it.
She gasped and then immediately dropped to her knees beside him. A shadow fell over them and the dragon was there also, making more of the fluted noises that now sounded panicked and upset.
"Oh," the woman said, her hands ghosting over the baby, "oh, she's much too young to be out yet, much too young." She looked at him then. "Where is her mother? She needs to be with her."
Bilbo shook his head. He pointed toward the green dragon's wing and pantomimed it breaking. The woman flinched as though struck.
"She was injured, is she still alive?" Bilbo shook his head and she sighed. "What about her riders? Were either of them around?"
Bilbo frowned, riders? There had only been the one, his friend.
The baby let out another cry and the woman immediately focused back on it.
"All right," she said, "I see you can understand me, even if you're not talking. This baby needs help, all right? She needs another dragon to take care of her. Do you understand?"
Bilbo nodded and she gave him a tight smile.
"Good. I want to take her back with me, all right? I live in the Shire. We have plenty of dragons there; one of them will be able to help her."
Bilbo's head had snapped up at the mention of the Shire, that magical place so many of the hobbit slaves spoke about. She wanted to take the baby there?
She was busy gathering the baby up while he thought about it. She stood and presented the baby to her dragon, who nuzzled it and then looked at the woman for a moment.
The woman turned to look at him. "We need to hurry. This baby is desperate need of help."
Bilbo nodded and struggled to his feet. He backed up and watched as she grabbed hold of a saddle strapped to the green dragon's back and clambered on, holding the baby in her arms.
A pang hit him as he watched. Over the past week he'd grown rather attached to it but he knew his friend wanted him to protect it and if that meant letting the woman take it to the Shire then so be it.
The woman looked at him and frowned. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get on."
Bilbo stared at her, his mouth slack. Him? She wanted HIM to go to the Shire?
She must have seen something in his face because her expression softened. She shifted the baby into one arm and held a hand out. "Come on, let's go."
Bilbo stepped forward hesitantly. He glanced at the green dragon who merely studied him quietly and then moved past to the woman's side. He reached a hand up cautiously and she grabbed it in a surprisingly strong grip and hauled him up into the saddle behind her.
Looking over her shoulder at him she grinned. "I'm Primula by the way and this beauty here is Snapdragon. Hold on to me tight, all right?"
He nodded and carefully wrapped his arms around her waist.
The dragon crouched, bunching its legs under it and flaring its wings outward.
Then it lunged, Bilbo tightened his grip in panic, and they lifted off.
Flying was unlike anything Bilbo could have possibly imagined. He leaned over to look down at the rapidly receding ground and then back up. Wind rushed past them and, as they broke the treetops, the full warmth of the sun hit him. Without thinking he let go of Primula's waist and threw his arms up toward the distant orb, laughing out loud.
Primula looked over her shoulder at him, amused. "So you can make sound at least, but you just don't talk? Is it you can't speak or don't want to?"
Bilbo didn't respond, too busy studying the landscape. He had a huge grin on his face and suddenly all his worries and pains and gnawing hunger didn't seem to matter.
He finally understood his mother's love of flying and her grief at being locked so deep under stone.
They flew for quite a while, until the trees fell away and they rushed over bright green pastures and small, quaint homes.
In the distance he could see a hill ringed with doors and windows set in it, winding up to a single house at the very peak. Behind the hill was an enormous field and, even from there, Bilbo could see it was filled with dragons resting and sunning themselves on rocks.
Hobbits of all shapes and sizes wandered about the roads and even more rode the currents lazily with their dragon companions.
The Shire.
Snapdragon banked suddenly, aiming straight for the field. The sudden change woke up the baby who immediately began to cry again, her tiny voice carrying.
Almost as one Bilbo saw dragon heads snapping up from the field and homing in on them. Other dragons already in the air changed direction as well, coming straight for them. By the time they had touched down a dozen or more dragons were gathered.
Primula dismounted and Bilbo slid down behind her.
Without an ounce of fear Primula marched into the center of the crowd and uncovered the little baby.
"Her mother is dead," she announced, "and she's out much too soon. She also clearly hasn't eaten anything in-" She stopped and looked back over to Bilbo. "In how long?"
Bilbo held up seven fingers, his mother had taught him to count though he hadn't used it in years.
Primula frowned. "Seven hours?" When he didn't put his fingers down her face blanched, "seven DAYS?"
Bilbo nodded.
The crowd shifted and suddenly a dragon was moving forward. She was somewhat larger than Snapdragon and, as she neared, Bilbo could see she had two baby dragons of her own clinging to her back.
The baby in Primula's arms cried as though sensing her and stretched out its neck, its tiny wings flapping uselessly.
Primula smiled and stepped forward to gently lay the baby on the other dragon's back.
"Thank you, Aline. I leave her to you."
The dragon bowed its head and turned to leave, most of the dragons going with her.
Bilbo stepped forward, an arm raised in protest, only to be headed off by Primula.
"It's okay," she said, her expression reassuring. "They will take the best care of her, you'll see. In the meantime why don't we get you taken care of, all right?"
Bilbo hesitated and then nodded.
Primula turned and said something to Snapdragon and then began to lead the way out of the field.
Bilbo followed. As they went he could see hobbits arriving, obviously wanting to know what was going on, but Primula waved them off.
"Later, can't you see he's as bad off as the baby?"
She went straight to the house he'd seen on the way in, the one at the top of the hill and opened the door, waving him inside.
"Welcome to Bag End," she said cheerfully, following him and shutting the door. She stood silent for a moment, listening and then said, "it sounds like my husband isn't home yet so you'll meet him later. Come on."
She led him straight to a large kitchen and sat him down at a table.
From there Bilbo watched as she busied herself, putting a pot on the table and grabbing random items from around the area.
Eventually a fantastic aroma began to permeate the room and he could feel himself almost beginning to salivate from it.
Primula turned finally and sat an enormous bowl of soup in front of him as well as a cup of tea.
"These are both very hot," she explained, "so be careful. And eat slowly, your stomach has been empty for so long it won't know what to do if we load it up with food too fast, all right?"
Bilbo nodded at her and obediently began to eat slowly as she ordered. It was torture trying to keep himself from simply grabbing the entire thing and upending it into his mouth but he forced himself to eat one spoonful at a time, followed by a small sip at a time from the cup.
Before he knew it his body began to feel heavy, exhaustion once again weighing him down. As though from a distance he felt Primula gently take his arm, pull him up from the table and lead him down a long hall.
She opened a door and pulled him into a room where she gently pushed him onto a bed.
Bilbo sank into it, awed at the soft feeling. He relaxed and, for the first time in his entire life, fell asleep without fear.
He'd never fully believed the stories the hobbit slaves told him of the Shire but he could see now how utterly wrong he'd been.
The stories were true.
Every single one of them.